2

Garth is Warned

Garth looked into the speaker’s eyes.

The glimmer of a smile in the drily expectant expression, as well as the steady regard of the silent ‘Mark’, tempted him to say ‘yes’ without wasting time.

Innate caution made him refrain.

‘What kind of danger?’ he countered, mildly enough.

‘Oh, the physical kind,’ said the other, casually. ‘But the thing is …’ He paused just enough to give emphasis to his words: ‘The last man who went along was a friend of ours. He left the house, but didn’t rejoin us. He was found dead—a bullet in the head. No evidence that he was shot by anyone from The Elms. Many questions were asked, and Frankenstein was put through it pretty well; but he managed to head us off.’

Garth clutched at the name: ‘Frankenstein?’

‘It is not a real name,’ said the man who talked so coolly of sudden death. ‘You might call it a nickname for the monster. He calls himself Franklin and we haven’t been able to prove that he owns any other names. But we think …’

‘Just a minute,’ Garth cut in. ‘It’s time I had a chance to speak.’ Neither of the others demurred, so he went on: ‘Are you seriously asking me to believe that a friend of yours accepted an invitation like the one I had this afternoon, only to be killed after he’d been to the house? Now, come …!’

‘Your turn to be interrupted, old son,’ said the other, quietly. ‘You are right, except on one point. He went there and was killed. We think Franklin killed him, or at least arranged his murder. But he did not receive an invitation: someone else did, and our man went in his place. A mild deception—and there was every hope we’d get away with it. We didn’t. You have a better chance because you are the man whom Franklin actually approached, and we’ve done our darnedest to be sure he doesn’t learn that we’ve been in touch with you. On the other hand, it’s only fair that you should know the possibilities.’

‘I want to know a lot more than those,’ retorted Garth. ‘Who the dickens are you?’

‘He’s Mark and I’m Mike,’ said the other, promptly. ‘We can tell you more when we know you’re with us, which won’t be until after you’ve been to Wimbledon. We can tell you that it’s all quite above board. And we’re allowed to tell you that certain parties are very anxious indeed to learn more about Franklin and his “items of interest”—and we’ve been detailed to find out. It’s as simple as that. We have to make it mysterious for the time being, old son, because’—he smiled engagingly—‘suppose Franklin were to suspect that you’d talked to us? Suppose he were to exert some kind of pressure to find out who sent you? I mean—if you didn’t know, you couldn’t tell. The simple ways are best.’

Garth felt his restraint breaking.

‘Look here!’ he snapped. ‘If you think you’re going to scare me by talking this bilge, you’re dead wrong. If there’s a good enough reason for my going to Wimbledon I’ll go, but I’ll take a lot of convincing that there is!’

‘M’mm...’ murmured the man who called himself Mike. He gave a lopsided grin. ‘The sad thing, old son, is that we have to convince you by our earnest manner and honest, confidence-inspiring, ugly faces. We haven’t authority to go any further, yet. Although we can tell you this,’ he added, as if visited by sudden inspiration: ‘We know of four people, at least, who’ve received a similar kind of letter. All of them very soon after a trip to America on private or Government business—a peculiar coincidence, at a time when Anglo-American understanding was never more important.’

He grimaced, bleakly. ‘There are saboteurs on both sides. I don’t mean the honest-to-God American politicians with an isolationist complex—we think they’ll see straight and come round, sooner or later. But there are others whose motives are considerably more dubious. And we think Franklin might be connected with them.’

‘Is this secret service work?’ Garth demanded, his irritation suddenly fading in what he thought was understanding.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Mike, politely. ‘Other people than Government agents are anxious to make sure that Anglo-American post-war relations are very healthy. We might be working for private interests, might we not? Anyway, we simply can’t answer questions at the moment. Get away from Wimbledon with some information about Franklin’s proposition to you, pass it on to us—and then we’ll play ball.’

Garth said, ‘How did you know I had such a letter?’

‘Ah,’ grinned Mike. ‘That would be telling!’

‘I’m beginning to think I’m a damned fool for even listening to you!’ Garth glared at the man called Mark. ‘You’re both a lot too casual about it all to expect to be taken seriously.’

Mark smiled, more restrainedly than his cousin.

‘We’re not really as casual as we might seem. Look’—He took out his wallet, extracted a photograph, and leaned across to hand it over. ‘Evidence!’ he said, abruptly.

Garth picked it up and stared at it, tight-lipped. It was of a man: big, good-looking—and obviously dead. There was a small hole in his forehead, and a trickle of blood ran down from it.

‘As he was when we found him,’ added Mike, harshly. ‘Listen to me, Garth. You’re a free agent. We’re not trying to compel you to do anything. We’ve shown you how careful we have to be—we’ve warned you. Now, it’s up to you. We shall have to try someone else if you won’t come in. That will mean delay, which in itself might prove disastrous. Don’t ask us how—we can’t know, at the moment. And if we did, we wouldn’t tell you until later. Is that all clear?’

Garth eyed him steadily.

There was no point in saying that the whole situation seemed bizarre, fantastic: the obvious was not a thing to dwell upon, with these men. They wanted a decision and expected it quickly. And somehow they had convinced him not only that it really mattered, but that they were working for a good cause. He was at a loss to understand why he should feel so sure, and it was that very perplexity which influenced him as he hedged:

‘How long can you give me to decide?’

‘It will take you three-quarters of an hour to get to Wimbledon,’ Mike pointed out. ‘It’s turned six, already, and you were to be at Wimbledon about seven.’

Slowly, Garth said:

‘The man who asked me to come here obviously knew I was feeling sore about the M.O.P. recall—he suggested this might be a means of rehabilitating myself. Is it?’

Mike smiled, gently, almost mockingly.

‘It might be. But on the other hand, he might have thought it a smart way of ensuring your interest.’

He was going to give nothing away obviously. Yet despite his normal caution—almost, indeed, despite his better judgement—Garth found himself believing all he had been told, and certain that he was mixed up in something of very great consequence. But still he hesitated. Then as he caught another glimpse of that photograph, and lighting the cigarette, he said abruptly:

‘When and where do I meet you, afterwards?’

The words were hardly out of his mouth before he felt the clammy hand of sudden, cold awareness flush his neck. But Mike’s smile had widened and he slipped from the bed and strode across to clap him on the shoulder, as Mark rose quickly from his chair.

The eyes of both men were glowing, and for the moment they looked even more alike.

‘Nice work!’ exclaimed Mike.

‘Good man!’ added Mark, with feeling.

‘I felt sure we could count on you, when I saw you,’ Mike admitted. ‘But thanks, just the same. Glad to have you aboard.’

‘We can’t make arrangements now,’ Mark told him. ‘But we’ll see you within an hour of your return—we’ll send you word. And you’re going to return: there’s no reason at all to think that Franklin has spotted us. That’s if you keep mum, of course. But you won’t give anything away.’

‘Do you know how to get to Wimbledon?’ demanded Mike.

‘Train from Waterloo is best,’ said Mark. ‘And you’ll get there quicker by Tube than cab, I think. But please yourself. And one other thing …’

‘You won’t be altogether alone,’ supplied Mike.

‘We shall be watching,’ explained Mark.

‘Watch-dogs of the bull-dog breed!’ grinned Mike. Then added contritely: ‘Garth, I know we’re an exasperating pair—but you’ve given us reason to feel cock-a-hoop. Oh, and it isn’t likely that you were seen, coming up here—but have some explanation ready, in case you’re asked. An appointment you had to put off—any old story, provided it will cover you. All right?’

‘I … I suppose so,’ said Garth, dazedly.

‘Of course it’s all right,’ declared Mark. ‘The probability is that your interview will go like clockwork. You’ve just two things to remember, old son. First—you want information, all kinds of information. If you can give us a verbatim account of what takes place, so much the better. Second, you’ve gone to see him because of the letter. You don’t know his name—forget Franklin. You don’t know that we exist, as far as he’s concerned. Right?’

‘Yes,’ Garth nodded, wryly; still somewhat dazed.

‘Then off you go,’ urged Mike. ‘Our blessings, and all that kind of thing!’

And Garth found himself walking along the bare passage before he had properly realised that he was out of the room.

He decided to take their advice and travel by Tube, and headed for the nearest entrance.

The train for Waterloo was crowded. And when he finally reached the station, he found the next one to Wimbledon due to leave in five minutes, and spent a frantic couple of minutes on the platform before he found a vacant seat—wedged in between two corpulent, elderly men.

Perspiring freely, not altogether with the rush and warmth of the evening, he lit another cigarette and attempted to marshal his thoughts. From the moment he had left the Regent Palace, his mind, had been filled with a series of kaleidoscopic impressions; now, for the first time he could settle down to consider the situation dispassionately.

The first thing that occurred to him was that even now it was not too late to withdraw. The second, arrived at after some moments of cogitation, was that he could not be dispassionate. There had been an air of fantasy about the interview—for that matter, about everything that had happened since the letter had come. As he ran through each item, he realised, wryly, that Anne’s coolness was a contributary factor to his presence here.

In spite of the sense of urgency which the cousins had impressed upon him—and a natural apprehension occasioned by a vivid mind-picture of the dead man—he found himself thinking of Anne as much as the project ahead. Why had she uttered his name as if with real pleasure, only to change so abruptly? It was a problem that increasingly worried him the more he pondered it …

He reached Wimbledon at ten minutes to seven.

It was only when he was outside the station and looking about for a taxi that the vague apprehensions born of the cousins’ persistent warnings came to a head. Yet when he finally managed to hail a taxi, he climbed into it unhesitatingly.

‘Do you know Brookside Road?’ he asked the driver.

‘Know every inch of Wimbledon, sir,’ the man assured him. ‘But it’s a long road—what part did you want?’

‘I don’t know the number,’ said Garth. ‘The name of the house is The Elms.’

‘Oh, The Elms, that’s an easy one! Right near the common, sir—be there in ten minutes.’

Ten minutes, thought Garth, grimly.

There was still time to withdraw—to have the man take him somewhere else. But he knew as he settled back that he would not do so, that he would see this thing through. Now, however, he began to feel irritated in retrospect, by the manner of the cousins. They had deliberately scared him. Surely it would have been better had they persuaded him to go without dropping so many hints of danger and without producing that photograph in evidence?

He smiled wryly.

The photograph had been a last-minute resort, when he had proved difficult to convince. Not that he blamed himself for that—everything considered, he had had plenty of justification for wanting to know more about the mission. It was surprising, indeed, how little they had in fact told him; how cleverly they had played on his susceptibilities. First, that intriguingly-phrased telephone message; then, the cousins’ emphasis on the likely involvement of Anglo-American relations—a particular obsession of his, as they would know well enough, of course, from reports in the Press.

The taxi passed along tree-lined avenues of pleasant houses. Here and there, he saw gaps and bomb-damaged buildings; but Wimbledon on the whole looked friendly and inviting.

The sun was still some way from the horizon and on Wimbledon Common itself, groups of adults and children strolled over the sun-swept grass.

Here, most of the houses were large; standing in their own ground, well back from the road.

The taxi turned left, then slowed down to enter the driveway of a house hidden by massive beech trees. Garth’s jaw tightened. From now on, he had to watch every word he said, every action he made. He felt cooler and less afraid; it was as well that the first flush of fear had come earlier.

Then he saw the house: a square, squat building, bare of creepers, stark-looking against the soft background of trees. Its plaster coat had broken away in places, leaving wide, bare patches of brick. The garden seemed to consist entirely of shubberies and tall trees; but these were neat enough. The drive itself was well-kept, too. And as the cab drew up at the pillared entrance the polished brass letter-box and knocker gleamed in the sun.

‘Here you are, sir!’ said the driver, unnecessarily.

Garth paid him, adding a good tip. And only half-conscious of noting the elderly, weather-beaten face and shrewd, blue eyes, asked, in a moment of inspiration:

‘Are you busy, tonight?’

‘Not all that,’ said the man. ‘Like me ter wait, sir?’

Garth nodded.

‘I’ll send word if I’m likely to be too long,’ he promised.

‘Okey-doke, sir!’

As he shut off his engine, Garth stepped into the porch and stretched out a hand to press the bell. He was startled when the door opened before he could do so, but the neatly-dressed maid had a reassuring smile.

‘Good evening, sir,’ she greeted him. ‘Are you Mr. Garth?’

‘I am,’ he said.

‘You’re expected, sir. Will you please come this way?’

He entered, and she led him across a large, gloomy hall and up a wide staircase. The landing window admitted more light than the front door, and he noted that the landing itself was spacious. Two wide passages led from it, and he followed the girl along the further one.

She stopped at the second door they came to. It was large and yellow, somehow out of keeping with the place; for it looked new. She did not tap, but pressed a bell-push. Then pausing only for a moment, she turned the handle, stepped just over the threshold and stood back for him to enter the room.

‘Mr. David Garth, sir,’ she announced, and a man rose from a large desk by the window. A vast man, whose shaggy outline seemed to put the room into shadow.

‘Ah, Mr. Garth!’ he said warmly. ‘I am delighted to see you, sir—so glad you were able to come! All right, Ethel.’

The door closed as the huge man extended a hand.